


A Feather in the Hand (Is Worth Two on Your Angel)

by WickedScribbles



Series: Against Fate's Design [2]
Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Brief Mention of Suicide, Crowley does some healing, Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romantic Comedy, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tags May Change, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, angst in first chapter only, domestic spats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedScribbles/pseuds/WickedScribbles
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are happily settled in their South Downs home. The Otherwordly forces that had kept them apart have finally left them alone, for good. They're even engaged -- so why has Aziraphale's attitude suddenly soured? Crowley is determined to find out, and makes it his mission to comfort his angel when he realizes the problem is more dreadful than he first thought. A sequel to Keeping up Appearances.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Against Fate's Design [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724335
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	A Feather in the Hand (Is Worth Two on Your Angel)

“I just don’t _understand_ ,” Crowley seethed to his hyacinths, “why the Heaven he has to act so irritated all the time.” 

It was late; sunset had long given into the press of evening, and the greenhouse was lit only by a few flickering fluorescent lights. Crowley kept meaning to replace them, but lately his mind had been elsewhere. A lot of things under his charge had gone untended due to this most upsetting distraction -- even the plants were looking a little peaked, which was part of the reason why he was out here repotting at such an hour. He and his fiance had had _another_ maddening, pointless row that Crowley had finally just walked away from. 

Things should have been perfect, though Crowley was usually strongly against _the P word_. 

They’d been officially moved into the cottage for close to a year. While this wouldn’t have been much of a length of time to them normally, this had been the best ten and a half months of Crowley’s existence. Not even a whisper of Otherworldly influence had disrupted their newly-founded life, and it was all the sweeter for it. Almost as if in celebration of this, humans were such a rare sight that they sometimes spent days at a time letting their corporations relax -- Crowley sunning his scales eagerly in any light source he could find, Aziraphale at ease enough to show the multitudes of eyes that adorned his natural form (it was easier to read that way, anyway). They really were free to do as they pleased. 

Sometimes, it felt almost like the Beginning again. The world lush around them, the times simpler, though there was nothing to interrupt them now.

In such an unmatched setting, it didn’t take Crowley long to give in and hand over the small treasure he’d been hiding from Aziraphale, as nervous as he was about it. _(Was it good enough? Would he like it? Did he even want to be married?)_ That, or his stomach would have eaten itself if he’d waited any longer. It wasn’t a flashy thing, the asking, like the _millions_ of videos, links, and articles that haunted him from a single Google search. Why were humans this clever? Skydiving proposals, flash mob proposals, fake death proposals...he’d watched about thirty minutes of this myriad footage before excusing himself to the bedroom and screaming into a throw pillow. 

No, his way was not that flash. Mostly because there was no one to show off for; in all the world, the two of them existed for each other. He knew Aziraphale would prefer something quiet, anyway. 

On the day of his proposal, Aziraphale was certain Crowley’d contracted something -- he was far too nervous to hide his strange behavior completely. 

“Can’t even _get_ sick,” Crowley kept insisting, but the angel would hear none of it. His anxiety was spilling over into the air as he fussed, hands wringing one another mercilessly.  
“But Crowley -- maybe something’s changed. We’re not as -- connected to our Sides as we were--” 

Now one of his hands was splayed over Crowley’s forehead, as if to check for a temperature. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s the hellfire.” 

“Anthony, be serious! I’m worried, what would we even _do_ if you were to--” 

Crowley shut him up with a kiss. Aziraphale really was incredibly anxious, and it softened his heart. 

“Angel. M’fine. Can’t get sick, can’t die. You’re stuck with me. Got it?” He placed his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face, squishing his cheeks together in a way that normally would have made him laugh. 

“If you’re really fine, then why do you seem so off?” Aziraphale pouted through his smushed face, and it took every ounce of Crowley’s self-control not to snort at him. 

“You’re just being… I dunno, over-aware. Reading into things. Maybe _you’re_ the off one,” Crowley suggested, trying not to make eye contact. The ring in his jacket pocket seemed to be trying to burn itself free. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley--”

“--And anyway, we’re going to be late for tea if you fuss any longer. How long have you been wanting to try this place? Come on, angel, or not even a miracle can get us in,” Crowley interrupted, giving Aziraphale a gentle shove in the direction of the door. 

With a melodramatic sigh, his angel gave in. Even in a potential crisis, it didn’t take much to get Aziraphale to agree to scones. 

The drive to the long-discussed tearoom was short, and the weather beautiful. They drove with all of the windows down, the breeze fussing Aziraphale’s hair playfully. Crowley couldn’t help but glance over at him every few minutes, loving the look of mild contentment on his face. Without having to think or worry, Crowley twined their hands together, delighted at the happy noise his lover made. 

When they pulled up to their destination, Aziraphale commented that they were lucky to come at a time when no other customers seemed to be partaking in the same eatery -- the Bentley was the only car on that part of the street. Crowley made a sound of agreement but said nothing; he’d reserved the whole tearoom just for the two of them. The mild buzz of annoyance this caused all its would-be patrons was only an added bonus in the back of his mind as he held the door for an astonished Aziraphale, who confirmed that it was, in fact, empty. 

“Strange, for this time of day,” he said again, and Crowley smiled wider, relieved he had no hint of the plan so far. 

“Lucky.” 

This particular establishment was small but brightly decorated in cheery greens and whites -- fresh yellow daffodils sat in vases on each table, and Aziraphale led them to a corner table with a good view of the street. Tucked away, but with a vantage point, as Crowley liked to say. 

A young woman in an apron swooshed up to take their order once they’d found a seat, then swooshed away again smartly. She of course wasn’t aware of the event in question, but savvy enough to know that someone who would rent out the entire place wouldn’t want to be disturbed more than necessary. 

Aziraphale was bouncing happily in his seat at the prospect of having tea together undisturbed in such a “nice little establishment”. Crowley felt like he was sweating out the very hellfire he’d mentioned earlier; nerves had set in at full-tilt. Now that they were here, set up, it occurred to him that he actually had to _do_ the thing he’d been planning so diligently behind his angel’s back. 

Thankfully, the tea had arrived and Aziraphale was too busy pouring to notice Crowley smear his napkin across his face to combat the sweat. Discorporation from nerves seemed imminent. _Satan, Crowley, pull yourself together. Procure ring. Say something nice. Give ring. Celebrate! Easy steps._

“Crowley, dear, you look peaked again. Should we leave? Head home?” Aziraphale had tapped him on the hand to get his attention, hazel eyes as round as coins. 

Crowley shook his head, tongue as dry as sandpaper. He grappled for his tea, swallowed it down boiling. “Mm. No. Told you, I’m good.” 

He watched as Aziraphale bit the corner of his lip. “You’re being very...odd. I’m really starting to worry.” 

The finger sandwiches arrived, and aside from a polite smile to the server, his angel ignored them. It reminded Crowley strongly of the last time he’d ignored food in favor of Crowley, of the Ritz over a year ago, what they’d told each other in his old flat. He’d been shit at speeches then, and realized that trying to say something eloquent was the only thing holding him back now. Spending the rest of his life with Aziraphale didn’t scare him a bit -- it was making an arse of himself by saying the wrong thing that had him spooked. 

Crowley steeled himself, and undid the miracle laced into the stitches of his jacket pocket. What was the quote? Actions spoke louder than words? 

Aziraphale was still looking at him with concern when Crowley held out his closed hand. 

“Angel. Let me just...show you a magic trick.” 

“A magic trick?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows nearly met his hairline. “You hate magic tricks.”

“Just trust me, would you?” Crowley took his angel’s left hand in both of his own, ignoring the fact that they were trembling violently. “Close your eyes,” he added, as Aziraphale’s intent gaze was not helping. Obediently, he let them fall closed, though his eyebrows were still scrunched in confusion. 

With the ring in his hand and just one more tiny miracle, Crowley blew a breath over Aziraphale’s fingers -- and suddenly, he was wearing his engagement ring on its proper finger. 

“Open,” Crowley said weakly.

Aziraphale’s eyes opened slowly, not sure what he was looking for. His eyes sought Crowley’s first, then traveled slowly down, to his own hand. When he saw the new adornment, he let out the softest _oh!_ as if he’d had the air taken from his mortal lungs. 

“Marry me?” Crowley asked, hating how small his voice sounded. “I want to spend forever with you, this way. If you don’t, er, care for marriage, that’s fine too. I just thought it seemed romantic, and like something you’d like--” 

He stopped dead when he saw tears pouring down Aziraphale’s cheeks. Dread filled him, but with a _pop_ (and a clatter as he jostled the table mid-miracle), Aziraphale was hugging him so tightly it hurt. 

“Of course, you, you -- _idiot!_ ” he sniffed. “Is that what this whole thing was about? Proposing? You could’ve just asked over breakfast, or in bed, or--” 

“I wanted to do it proper,” Crowley said softly, reaching up with a napkin to wipe his angel’s face dry. 

“Yes. Yes, I will marry you. And spend the rest of our long, long lives together. Oh my Lord,” Aziraphale hiccupped. “You are...amazing. And ridiculous. And I love you.” 

“I love you more,” Crowley smiled, kissing the new ring on his fiance’s finger. 

“Shall we take this to go?”

“Oh, definitely.”

\---------

The row had been about crumbs, mostly. 

They were always about stupid things like that. 

This time it was crumbs left on the counter from the end of a baguette (something that Aziraphale himself had been guilty of leaving behind _dozens_ if not hundreds of times). A week ago, it might have been the laundry basket overflowing -- _they miracled it all into their closet anway!_ , recalled Crowley with a particularly aggressive slam of a potted plant. 

Aziraphale had undergone a faint change in the past month, and it was certainly not for the better. There were less and less beam-y smiles. He was quieter. Things frustrated him easily, and Crowley had almost never seen him frustrated. He claimed to have no appetite, for Satan's sake. 

This just wasn't like the angel he knew, and Crowley made a point of telling him whenever they got into one of these petty snits. Aziraphale's attempts at defending himself were poor at best. He danced around the topic, clumsily. He might as well have a sign around his neck at all times proclaiming " _I am a terrible liar_ ", but still he attempted. This too added the proverbial fuel to the flames when they argued. 

Crowley could hear himself in the kitchen, only an hour before. 

"Aziraphale, would you just be bloody _honest_? What is wrong with you?" 

He cringed, and shoved his hands deeper into the bag of potting soil in front of him. 

His angel spent more and more time holed away in the cottage's library room (which admittedly did lessen the spats). This itself was not unusual; sometimes he spent hours there poring over his books. Now he rarely came to bed, and cast Crowley nervous glances if he hung around too much. They saw each other for what felt like only moments, and in those moments, Aziraphale was quiet and pale. Fear was squeezing Crowley like a vine that killed the tree it chose to wrap around. Surely this was it, then; Aziraphale had finally grown tired of him and was just too polite to fucking _say_ it. 

_This_ had been the true source of today's show of slamming doors. The crumbs were just the opening act. The fear had been too big to name, and had curdled into anger. 

To lose his angel would end him, there was no doubt. He really would just dive into the nearest pool of holy water if Aziraphale looked him in the eyes and told him that he took it all back, that all of that shining, beautiful love was no longer his. That they weren't what he thought -- that all of it hadn't meant a thing. God, that they weren’t even _friends_. How could he live through that? It was an impossibility. 

Crowley blinked, hard, and the blurriness in his eyes vanished. This was fine. This wasn't a problem. He'd confront Aziraphale properly, then. Enough of the toying around -- if there was something to be said, then surely two millenniums-old beings could just bloody spit it out by now. Politely. Sanely. How much harder could it be than admitting they loved each other? 

Unless the opposite was suddenly true. _Terribly sorry, Crowley, but you're just too much. I've decided to move back to London after all and live in my dusty stupid bookshop forever. Here's your ring back. Bye._

Crowley took a long moment to steel himself. Several more emotions ran through him, including one he vaguely thought might have been nausea, before he got to his feet and removed his garden smock. Whether or not he was ready for it, he needed to know what was really going on. 

\-----------

The house was quiet when he entered. If a human had stepped in, they wouldn't have suspected anyone was home at all, but Crowley's fine-tuned ears picked up an ethereal frequency. 

"Angel? Love?" Crowley called softly. He was more than ready to make amends after that stupid bloody argument. Half of him wanted to forget about confronting Aziraphale entirely, just scoop him up in a warm, needed hug -- whether Aziraphale liked it or not -- and procrastinate on it. 

Thankfully, what Aziraphale had done made the decision for both of them. 

Not hearing an answer, Crowley opened his mouth slightly to scent for him; it was just quicker. His nose wrinkled. Mixed with all of the familiar smells of Aziraphale was a rather overwhelming aroma of scotch. It was coming blaringly from their bedroom -- with a rise in concern, Crowley made his way there. 

At first, Crowley didn't see the angel slumped in the corner of their shared space, though he could certainly smell him, snake senses or not. 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley said to the room, his voice laced with true alarm now. 

"M'here!" replied the angel, and it took only the one word for Crowley to know that he was terribly, blindly drunk. 

And then he saw him. 

He had been hidden under his own wings, which were hideously under-feathered and scabbed. Pin feathers stood out everywhere against the pale skin of them, and the feathers that remained hung limply or in odd directions. It was the most painful looking wing ailment Crowley had ever seen, and he heard a choked sound leave his own throat. 

In Aziraphale's current state, this didn't seem to bother him. His pupils were blown wide, cheeks rosy. When he spotted Crowley, his face split into a huge grin. 

" _Anthony!_ " He sang the word, trying to get to his feet but slipping. Aziraphale giggled, letting his dilapidated wings flop over one another. "Where in the _hell_ have you been?" 

Crowley was still staring in shock. "Angel -- you...your --"

Aziraphale blinked at him owlishly, like his head was underwater and the words weren't reaching him. 

"Your wings," Crowley finally managed. 

"Oh, _yes_ ," Aziraphale said in mock seriousness, lowering his voice. "Dreadful, right? _Hideous_ to look at. Incredibly painful on top of it all."

He couldn't help his hands from clenching into tight fists at his sides. Crowley wanted nothing more than to reach out, to touch, to _fix it_. His angel was hurting. His angel was _suffering_. 

"Why, er…" Crowley cleared his throat and looked up, struggling not to cry. "Why's it so severe? Mine have never been like...like, that." 

Crowley's wings began to itch once every millennia, which was annoying but tolerable. He would sneak away from humanity as often as he could (it of course got harder every time) to scratch at the flaking skin and gently preen the new feathers as they worked their way into his skin, and discard the old ones. He'd kept a few from every molt, and noted the subtle changes in color from feather to feather. 

" _Becaussse_ , Crowley." Aziraphale drew out the word and rolled his eyes as if he was missing something extremely obvious. "Angels have to be _perfect_. Glorious, beautiful, all that. So every three hundred years, I _deal with it_. So we stay perfect." His voice had gone so bitter, so utterly _different_ , that he sounded like an entirely other person. 

Every three hundred fucking years. For six thousand years. Crowley did the math in his head and felt another twist in his gut. Not constant agony, but far worse than what Crowley had to put up with. And he’d never said a word, or indicated that there was any sort of problem. 

Unable to stop himself any longer, Crowley crossed the room and bent down to his angel's level. 

"I am _so_ sorry," he whispered, carding a hand through the familiar blond hair. 

Aziraphale seemed to waver, looking at Crowley as if he wasn't sure he was really there. Then he put his head in his hands and _sobbed_. 

"Crowley -- I'm so stupid -- _I'm_ s-sorry," he managed between gasps. 

Unable to put his arms around him for fear of hurting Aziraphale's wings, Crowley cradled his head instead, shushing him. 

"You are _not_ stupid --"

"I should have just said something --" 

"Yeah, but I get it now and I'm not angry with you --" 

"Do you still l-l-love me?"

Aziraphale stared up at him, more sober now, face soaked with tears. Crowley loved him more than ever, his heart tender and hurting for him, and had already forgotten the hardships of the past month. 

"Okay, maybe you're a _little_ stupid.” Aziraphale laughed at that, burrowing closer. “Of course I still love you, angel," Crowley chuckled shakily, kissing Aziraphale on the forehead. "And I will help you. Whatever you've had to do to deal with _this_ before, alone, you will _never_ have to do again. I've got you. From now on. Okay?" 

He felt a nod against his chest. "Actually, I usually get incredibly drunk and pass the months it takes for it to cease in a blur. But I couldn't do that with you." 

"So you just turned into a massive bitch instead?" 

"I apologized!" 

"Yeah, yeah." 

They spent hours there, speaking quietly and laughing, catching up on all the missed time away. Crowley's heart bubbled over and was full; they were okay. Everything was going to be fine. They had found the problem, and would fix it. Together. It was a Real Miracle. 

Eventually, Aziraphale drifted off into a rare sleep (Crowley had persuaded the angel to take naps with him, and he’d begrudgingly admitted to liking them), and Crowley watched his chest rise and fall, settling him in his lap. The bed was only feet away, but after weeks of frigidness, Crowley couldn’t bear to give up the contact. Gently, he arranged his poor, damaged looking wings so that they wouldn't touch anything while he rested. 

Around the blue-purple prelude to dawn, Crowley decided to try something. Placing a hand gingerly on either wing, he concentrated hard, hoping that he still remembered the trick. Healing was supposed to be an angel-exclusive miracle, after all. Why would a demon need to heal? As you know, Crowley was no ordinary demon. There were certain memories he still retained, aspects of Creation he remembered as clearly as though he was still on the Other Side, though most of his angelic talents had left him. He rarely mentioned this to Aziraphale -- it made his eyes go all sad and round, and usually earned him a Sympathetic Hand on the Arm, which he did _not_ need. 

After several minutes of sweaty staring on his part, the most damaged parts of Aziraphale's wings slowly righted themselves. The skin took on an even tone, and the last mature feathers fell out. Pin feathers pushed out tiny sprouts. Panting silently as though he'd completed a triathlon, Crowley let his head fall against the wall with a grin. _Still got it_. Pride filled his chest as Aziraphale sighed in his sleep, shifting comfortably into him. 

Crowley miracled his phone from wherever he’d left it, opened the search engine, and typed in, “how to help a moulting bird”. The first return was _How to Make Your Parrot Comfortable During a Moult_. Eh, angel, parrot. Close enough. The tasks didn’t seem all that difficult either way, and it wasn’t as if he’d pass up the opportunity for a little makeup pampering. And sex. Sex would be fine too. It had been twenty five days and thirteen hours since they’d had any if his watch was right, which it had damn well better be. 

He didn’t know how long it would take to completely fix this. Until then, he was motivated to try anything to comfort Aziraphale, to tend to him -- never let it be said that he wasn’t a giving person, and his angel set off all sorts of instincts in his head that were half-embarrassing, half-cathartic to indulge. 

Aziraphale slept until the sun approached the top of the sky. By then, Crowley had several ideas.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I'm back with more Ineffable Husbands. The first chapter became WAY more angsty than I intended it to, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. From here on I plan on my usual fluff and sex. That's my bread and butter. :P 
> 
> See you soon! Stay safe out there.  
> \-- WickedScribbles


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